


praya dubia

by snagov



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Service Top, captain francis crozier just wants someone else to tell him what to do for once, james is happy to take command, miserable and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snagov/pseuds/snagov
Summary: When Francis looks at James' hands, they are shaking as much as his own. He glances back up, catching the other man's eyes."How do you want me?"
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 37
Kudos: 142





	praya dubia

The deepest parts of the ocean are the darkest. The abyss and the ocean floor laid out in a carpet of black. No light sweeps through here. The cold holds court. The water is wide and nearly silent. Here there is only taste and touch. Open your mouth, fill it with saltwater. 

Try not to drown.

He waits. The dark room is full of echoes; Francis leans against the wall. Pauses and reconsiders, then shifts his bones and adjusts.

 _Wait for me,_ James had said. _I'll come to you._ Francis hesitates. He sits on the bed and frowns. Uncrosses his legs and gets up to stand near the small shelves. There is little room anyway, it doesn't matter where he places himself. He doesn't know where he should put his hands. He fusses with his hair, then stops, feeling absurd. James knows what he looks like both at his worst and at his best. Over the past two years, Francis has mostly only ever been at his worst. 

He shifts his hips. His dick is furious in his trousers, scraping along the wool. _How long?_ He doesn't know how long he'll need to wait. It doesn't matter. His blood races at the memory of the suggestion. James had whispered it against his ear, warm breath across his cheek. Francis had sat at the thick oak table, his face buried in his lined hands. After Sir John's death, the weight of the command has grown heavier and Francis' shoulders slump. James had watched him with hazel eyes not dissimilar to the color of a good whiskey. Francis frowns constantly, his melancholy written all over himself. James is different. There's something concealed within him, something wrapped up in layers of good humor and a fine accent. James' smile is easy yet it rarely reaches his eyes. As Francis had snarled at the unfortunate table, James had stared with intense focus at him, a light frown on his mouth. Francis can never guess what James is thinking, truly thinking, deep down beneath the set curls and practiced stories. He tells himself that it's yet another reason why he hates the younger man. One more reason in a very long list of good reasons. 

"I'm so tired," Francis had whispered, rubbing the ache out from between his eyes. 

He had heard James swallow. Could picture the quiet nod as James once more tolerated the picked-over mess of a drunken Irishman as his superior officer. Fifty years old and fifty years broken. Francis had curled his lip, eyes still closed, picturing the flash of disdain that might leak from James' face. He doesn't look. Doesn't need to. It must be there. 

"I know," James said quietly. "As am I. As we all are."

"Can't someone else handle it for a bit? Just a few days. Let me get some godforsaken blessed sleep? Just let someone else take command for a while." There had been a rustle and then silence. When Francis felt James' hand on his forearm, the heat of it dug deep beneath his jacket. 

"I could, Francis," James murmured. His voice was bare and strange in a vulnerable way Francis had never heard it before. He opened his eyes and looked at where James had bent to him and was looking up. The other man seemed terrified. The flush was high across his cheekbones. Determination furrowed his brow. What had stopped the breath in Francis' pitiable throat was the heat in the way James looked at him. All of it, ever careful story and studied word. Every aborted gesture and baiting sentence - all of it peeled away to fire and flame. 

God, how Francis wanted him. How, waiting in his lonely cabin, he wants him still.

His own cock doesn't matter. What matters is James. His palms sweat, considering what James will tell him to do. Perhaps James will want his mouth. Francis looks at the floor, the polished wooden boards shining with wax. No dust will get on his knees, show against the dark fabric. He'll drop to his knees, pull James out of his uniform. Press his forehead into the shadow of the valley of hip and thigh. He'll take James in, tongue pressed against the underside, pulling him down deep into his throat. Knocking softly against the urge to choke, one hand wrapped tight around the root of him. His crooked nose against James's thin belly, the dust of dark curls on him, one tense thigh under his other hand. He'll ground himself on James, sucking him off exactly he’s wanted to. As he's meant to. As he's been told. James will keep his hands knotted in Francis' hair, pulling at him as a rider might pull at the reins of a horse. His jaw aches in anticipation and he leaks into his own trousers like a schoolboy. Like a man who has not been touched in three years. He buries a shudder, closing his eyes, and leans against the wall of the empty room, as starved as kindling for the fire. How does it go? Submission? Listen now, hear the sound of footsteps down the long hall. The click of measured heels across the stone floor. Any moment now. Francis' breath in his throat, the curl of heat up his spine. Heels on the tile. The door opens. A figure in the dark, crossing the shadows. The little light from the hallway gleams on the navy wool of his coat. In the faint light, James looks uncertain. He shuts the door firmly. When he shoves the bolt, James leans with his back against the door. His lower lip is well-bitten, his hands fret. 

"You are certain, aren't you?" James asks quietly. "I would not wish to hurt you."

Francis stares and no sound comes. What is there to say? There's nothing to say. He does not know how to broach this. 

James tries again. "Tell me you're certain."

Only a short, rough nod is given. Francis' jaw is very tight. His brows furrowed heavily and worry twisting his mouth. A similar sort of worry seems to slow James. Until he gives a command, they can each pretend that this is not happening. That James has only stopped by for a question, a late-night detail. Francis watches the nerves in James' swallow, the way his Adam's apple bobs up and down his neck, and cannot fathom why this beautiful creature has come to him across a half-mile of sea ice with night licking at his boots. 

But he has and when Francis looks at James' hands, they are shaking as much as his own. He glances back up, catching the other man's eyes. "How do you want me?"

James closes his own eyes, breathing out. When he speaks, his voice is stronger. "On your knees."

Heat spikes through Francis' spine and his cock twitches. He nods and breathes in, lowering himself to the floor. To the position of prayer, a supplicant begging for release. He watches with fascination as James draws closer, the light glancing across the firm rise at the front of his trousers. He wants it desperately; he cannot believe he might be allowed. 

"Take me out," James whispers, one hand grazing the side of Francis' face. This is the first time James has touched him like this, the first time he has been touched with desire in years. Francis is intensely aware of the edges of himself. Aware of the scent of himself, the prickle of sweat down his back. His impossibly hard cock. He might make a fool of himself and come at just the feel of James on him. He grits his molars and breathes in, doing as he's told. James is long and hot in the palm of his hand. He can feel how James shakes at his touch. 

“Go slow,” James whispers. “It’s been quite a while.”

Francis nods and swallows around him. When James’ fingers come to curl in his hair, Francis sucks harder on the cock in his mouth, eyes wet and tightly closed. Overwhelmed and thankful for the hardwood of the floor to press his aging knees into, to draw a sting out and to try to ground himself. A gasp comes from above and the hands tighten as James gives an aborted thrust into Francis’ mouth. When Francis looks upward again, he knows he’s made an error. 

The look on James’ face is open and unguarded. There’s no art nor artifice here. Nothing studied, nothing careful. Just wild and bright eyes dawning with awe, a slack mouth. Sweat covers his brow and the way he looks at Francis is enough to stop a man’s heart. _Don’t look at me like that, I’ll fall in love with you._ Francis colors and wants. He _wants_ to stand up and pull James close to him. He wants to cup that face between his own shaking hands. This face that he has cursed and loathed, this man he has despised and locked away as a pretty and useless thing. This man who has never faltered in standing with him, who had come to command with him gracefully. Who had questioned him not for finding Francis lacking but simply for wanting him to be well. The last variable is solved. The Rosetta Stone of his body language is found opening beneath him. James and his silent frowns, his cover of laughter. No one laughs in the room. There are only the silent gasps Francis wrings from him. The look of tender awe on James’ face as Francis works his hand around the root of him and presses a tongue along the underside. Even Francis cannot mistake this. He had expected to be told, to cede control. That it would be rough and competitive. Not this. He doesn’t pull his mouth from James’ cock because he knows he will move up and kiss James. Will pull him to himself and press his mouth to the other man’s, whispering _I love you_ over and over again like both a rosary and a fool. But James hasn’t given the word. And Francis does not trust himself. So he does not. 

"Wait," James says, pulling away. "Come here."

Francis closes his eyes. He doesn't know what James has in mind but it doesn't matter. Francis knows what kind of creature he is before a beautiful thing. Hungry and half-starved, his greedy fingers already reaching and jaw open to swallow his piece of the world down. James could lead him to the top deck, bring him to the edge, and tell him to jump. He would do it. Francis shifts the blame of himself between his shoulder blades, standing up on unsteady legs. When James reaches for him, he brings him only to the narrow bed and no one tells him to jump. 

The touch is gentle. Francis doesn't understand. A palm is pressed to the underside of Francis's dick, trapped there in his clothing, aching upward. Francis sucks in a breath. James kisses him. Wet and deep, this rockpool of his mouth. Francis pushes blindly into it, into that softness, parted lips and tongue like a red carpet. He opens Francis's own mouth, kissing him like opening a door after a long journey. James kisses Francis like he's coming home. _Touch me. Let me touch you. I'm afraid that I may need you._ When his eyes are closed, he can nearly imagine that the _Terror_ floats anchored in warmer waters. In the morning, he might go above and feel the balmy Mediterranean sky on his neck. Perhaps this is no ship at all. Perhaps this is his bed at home. Perhaps he peeling the blankets back for a lover who has come before and will come again. In his bed, this will not be one night only. In his bed, James will find him over and over again, always safe and warm. 

But when he opens his eyes, it is dark and the Arctic chill is borne on the back of the air. Even here in his cabin bed, steam heat borne through a vein-like network of pipes run below the floorboards. He can see almost nothing, save for what is found in flickers of low light. How will they get back? Here in the deep sea, down is up and up is down. In the deep, you do not know which way to swim. The cold seizes your muscles, chills your blood. Whispers _stay here with me, I'll make a grave for you. Don't you dare leave me here._

Where to swim? He doesn't know. Just try to stay warm. Don't go to sleep. 

Not yet.

"Hold still," James murmurs, kneeling now before Francis. Francis's spine rattles like a snake. He nudges Francis's legs apart with his own knees, there like a supplicant. Strong hands run up Francis's calves, his thighs, come to rest in the center of his hips. Not quite touching. Not yet. They pull his thighs further apart. Leave him open and exposed as if on the side of a cliff with nothing but eagles to tear at him. But nothing cruel comes. His dick out and jutting into the air, the rest of him pressed back into the narrow berth. Francis gasps. James looks up at him, warning in his eyes. _Don't make a sound._ Those strong hands shift to his hips now, stilling him. _Don't move._ One of Francis's shaking hands comes up to James' hair, settling in scattered curls. James pushes into it and Francis moans as his elegant fingers curl around his own cock. His hips perfectly still, his hand riding on James's head, taking the way James fucks him with capable hands.

That's the thing about submission. About surrender. _Catch me, do with me what you will. Do with me what I want. Don't make me have to say it. Give me permission to worship you. Tell me when and where. I'll be there._

He tightens his fist on James' solid shoulder. James moves away, letting him go. His cock slaps wet and alone against his belly. Francis digs his teeth into his lip at the loss of feeling, at this miserable interruption. There is an ache of incompleteness between his thighs. An electrical circuit with one part struck out. Francis nearly cries out. God, he needs to come. _Please._

"Like this," James murmurs, laying down alongside him. He brings Francis' hand down between his thighs. "My coat, front pocket. There's a bottle of oil."

Francis' mouth is very dry; his dick is very red. James is laid out against him like a psalm to be read, gasping there, wrapping his hands around Francis' neck, running over the wool-covered shoulders. He nods, eyes wide and weak. 

Into the deep then. The water is dark below, he has no eyes to see the way. It doesn't matter, not in the deep. The dark is the world of the blind and we are led forth by touch. Hands first, his cock follows slowly by inches and fathoms. Francis finds himself slipping deep into James's body. The first push is overwhelming. He holds himself still. He should look away, should keep himself separate and distinct. But Francis has only ever had a taste for ruin. He stares into James' eyes, trying to let the feeling pass, trying to keep his orgasm at bay. He hasn't been told yet. He's not allowed. _I'm yours, whatever you need from me. Take what you want. Use me, please. Tell me to fuck you._

"Go on," James whispers, his eyes wide and desperately focused on Francis' own. The warmth is impossible. Francis breathes in heavily, feeling his chest swell with oxygen. He's soft around the middle and his thinning hair is increasingly as silver as a bullet. His neck is thick, his face is lined. He should be ashamed of himself, should doubt himself. The way James looks at him, open-eyed and full of heat, is not to be believed.

He shouldn't keep doing this to himself, jumping in at a word. At a single command. _Just say the word, I'll come to you._ With a hand on his chin, James draws him in for a kiss. Francis moves. Over and over and over again, watching the sweat glisten on James' neck, down his chest. He dips down, licking it off and tasting the salt of his skin. 

"Oh, God. Francis," James whispers, "Yes. _Fuck_."

He wants to make it good. His broad hands wrap around James' straining, blood-hard cock. James cries out and digs nails into Francis's neck. When James comes, he shakes in waves around Francis, holding him deep and warm within the cove of his own body. Francis stills, watching in rapture as James comes apart around him. The ice of that too-controlled expression fracturing with a parted mouth and eyes squeezed shut, the hiss of a sailor's quiet moan. 

_I don't know why you were brought to my ship. Why are you here? If I am to love you, I will do it on my own terms and never say a word._ The deep has nothing to light it. The sun has never come here, down below the waves. No one knows what lives at the bottom of the sea but those who have never returned. Here be monsters. The misfits, the outcasts. If you have no sun to light your way, no warmth at your back, you learn to make the light yourself. Look here at him, covered in his own bioluminescence, brightening the world he gets to have. 

James pulls him in deeper once again with his pleading legs. "Don't stop," he commands. 

"It isn't necessary."

James brushes a hand across Francis' damp chest. He arches a tired brow. "Is an order unnecessary, Captain?"

He shudders. _You will be my undoing._ He is careful what he reaches for, where he puts his staining touch. Francis knows he is a punishment, never a reward. He buries his head into James' shoulder and, held in gentle arms, fucks forward into this warm and welcoming body. His hips slam forward, his breath with them. 

"Please," he begs, weak and worthless. He begs for one thing. James doesn't ask. Doesn't have to ask. His sinewy arms are still locked around Francis' neck and James pulls him into a confession of a kiss. _Careful, James._ Be careful of surfacing. The long climb upward. Don't go too quickly, don't rush toward the light. Be mindful of the nitrogen in your blood, bubbling into pearls, as deadly as a bullet. 

He comes, making a shipwreck of himself in his own bed. Spilling out from between firm thighs holding him close. His head falls against James' chest. Careful hands run through the small hair at the nape of his neck, steady and quiet as Francis' pulse slows beneath their touch. 

"I - " Francis says, then stops. The silence drags. He doesn't try again. What follows is _I love you._ It cannot be said. Don't say it too quickly, don't say it too much. Don't say it at all. Be careful of the words, bubbling like nitrogen. 

Long fingers find his hand and squeeze it. "There'll be time enough," James murmurs. Francis nods. The voyage will come to an end one day, as all must. For this, for them, there will be time enough at last.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
